Barely There
by exhisting
Summary: Each time, she finds herself back in the bar in tinier clothing and higher heels. Whatever makes 'em (the folks at home) weep. The truth of the matter is, the new (heartless) Elena Gilbert doesn't care about any-fucking-thing. At least that's how it is till she meets a certain Damon Salvatore. Rated M for lemons and language. Delena end-game.


**Title: "Liquid Silver"**

**Author: exhisting**

**Length: Intended to be a one-shot – BUT _length may change based on interest_**

**Synopsis: Each time****, she finds herself back in the bar in less clothing and higher heels. Whatever makes the folks at home weep. The truth of the matter is, the new (heartless) Elena Gilbert doesn't care about any-fucking-thing. At least that's how it is till she meets a certain Damon Salvatore.**

**Rated: M for graphic scenes (lemons!) and mature language**

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><p><em>Read between the lines<em>  
><em>Of what's fucked up and everything's alright<em>  
><em>Check my vital signs<em>

_..._

_My shadow's the only one that walks beside me_

_My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating_

She was dressed to kill: in thigh-high heeled boots and a sinfully sheer dress. All eyes were glued to her. By the end of the night, she would leave a trail of broken hearts in her wake. (But c'est la vie.)

It was past midnight and she had long hours to work off tomorrow, but she felt like dancing and dance she will. The club, with its rather cliché name of "Forbidden Territory", suggestively dark atmosphere and repetitive disco music, was exactly the therapy she needed. So she slipped on her nicest panties and highest heels.

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><p>It's two o'clock in the morning. She's naked in a stranger's bed. She has a hellish hangover, but that's nothing new. She lies awake, her hair fanned out on her pillow, staring holes into the ceiling. He's asleep.<p>

She allows herself a moment, no more than that, to watch him sleep– in a completely normal, non-stalkery way. She watches his chest rise, his jet black hair askew, a mild smile hanging from his face.

Then she slips away from his embrace.

He doesn't seem to notice her absence. He didn't even move as she broke away.

Which is good. She doesn't want to make a scene.

She isn't sentimental. This is a one-night-stand, nothing more. "Having sex" doesn't equate to "having a relationship". She knows that. She's used to the drill. She's known this ever since Matt fucked her and fled; since then, she has distanced herself from any real relationship. Yeah, they may have spent an entire night having some (admittedly) hot sex together but _that was it_. She could have woken up in another hot stranger's bed this morning. He wasn't special. He _just happened_ to sit beside her at the bar last night. He was horny, like most men are around her. Appreciated her cleavage. His hand eventually ventured beneath her skirt. She was bored. Thought, "why not?" He was exactly the type of person her mother warned her about– tall, dark, brooding– so _of course_ she let him into her pants. No feelings were involved in the process. They got to second-base on the drive to his place. He unhooked her bra, she gave him a blow-job, they had a fun time for an hour and a half jumping each other's bones. No strings were attached _whatso-fucking-ever. _They didn't even exchange names.

A crack of moonlight seeps through the parted curtains; other than that, the room is pitch black. She looks for her clothes rather blindly.

Her hand identifies something, and as she places it to the light she can see it better. It's a... oh, used condom, flung to the floor after their second round. Awkward.

Then she hears a sound and she stops cold. Her heartbeat quickens– she holds her breath– and she doesn't flinch. Is he awake? She quickly glances at him, her heart in her throat. But no, he's practically comatose. He couldn't have possibly...

She is relieved.

She hurriedly gets herself dressed then goes without a sound. No note, no kiss, no nothing. They started off as strangers in the bar last night, and despite spending a night in the throes of passion, strangers they shall remain. As she escapes through the door her eyes catch on a framed photo by the mantle. It's _him_ in a football jersey. She would spend more time examining it but the truth is, she doesn't really give a fuck.

She leaves no trace of her ever being there, and he will wake the next morning thinking she was a figment of his imagination– if not for the aching in his boxers.

So she leaves without turning back, a vision to behold in smeared lipstick and a misbuttoned top, striding down the street with her blood red heels in hand.

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><p>He awoke feeling hot and bothered.<p>

As his eyes focused to the room around him, he tried his best to recall what the hell happened last night.

He was dragged into an over-18 club by a colleague, he remembered. He was told to score some numbers, have some fun, break some moral rules. And he remembered thinking to himself, rather skeptically, that having fun would be pretty fucking impossible, since 1) Katherine had just dumped him, and 2) he was absolutely certain that Katherine Pierce was "the one". He remembered hating every square-inch of that club, with its scantily-clad girls and Katy Perry soundtrack. So he made a beeline for the bar. He remembered ordering a scotch on the rocks, and then telling the bartender to "keep them coming".

Oh yeah, so that's what happened. That explains the throbbing hangover.

But there was still a nagging question to be resolved: Why the fuck was he feeling sore... in that particular area?

Then he remembered her.

Even in his drunken haze, he remembered her to be abnormally beautiful. She was sitting beside him at the bar. He remembered watching her as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and thinking she was the most exquisite woman he has ever laid eyes on. She drank her alcohol voraciously, and as he watched her nurse her drink he realized that she was a woman with as much emotional baggage as he did (maybe even more). After three more drinks, she seemed to realize he was staring at her. She smiled at him, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.

He remembered the night they shared. The intense chemistry throughout it all. The heated fest in the cab. Her legs wrapped around his hip as they bustled into his apartment. The electricity that shot through his veins as her lips crashed upon his. The unadulterated awe he felt as she removed her top. Most vividly, he remembered how, just before his climax, he searched her eyes and– as she stared back– realized there was nothing to be found.

Throughout all the question marks drawn from that night, there was one consistent certainty: She left him undone.

After tasting liquid silver, he craved more.

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><p><strong>(The featured song is "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" by Green Day)<strong>

**Please review and favorite if you liked it! I welcome your feedback.**

**So again, this was written as a one-shot but it may end up being a multi-chapter if you guys want it to be one!**


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